<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>No thorny crown by vox_nihilio</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889163">No thorny crown</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vox_nihilio/pseuds/vox_nihilio'>vox_nihilio</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War I, BAMF Desmond Miles, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:34:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vox_nihilio/pseuds/vox_nihilio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When rumors of the Mentor's long lost son appears from the trenches of the Great War, Shaun Hastings is sent to drag him home. It is a task more difficult then he could ever imagine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No thorny crown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shaun Hastings was going to kill Bill when he got back to merry old England.</p><p>He was a <em> historian </em> for christ's sake! He did boring bookwork <em> , </em> He didn't go on adventures and risk his bloody life. No, that task was for crazy people like Rebecca. </p><p>Then again, one would be hard pressed to call this an adventure.</p><p>The trenches looked as if a child had crudely drawn a stick through mud, and stomped along while doing so. Shaun's back ached from being slightly bent at all times. The sky was greasy blacks, browns and greys. Every once in awhile, Shaun could see the bright brush of flares repaint it orange.</p><p>"Well gentlemen,  this'll be our place for now. Get your arses settled." Sergeant Brock's voice tapped Shaun on the head with it's uncouth authority. He looked around at the filthy frontline trench and suppressed a shudder. In the darkness of the half covered trenches, there were glinting eyes. They were more akin to <em> rats </em> than anything. So many pairs of gleaming, mocking eyes were huddled in the cover that Shaun honestly <em> did </em>mistake them for rats.</p><p> Sergeant Brock's grey tinged red hair glinted under his helmet in the light of a faraway flare. He was a veteran from one of England's recent colonial expenditures. While he had been cheated out of any military pensions or honors, the man still did his duty. He was a solid, reliable chap that didn't mind Shaun's apparent ineptitude but-</p><p>“Private Clarke,” The sergeant beckoned with a dirty finger. “I got a word for ya.”</p><p>“What is it sir?” Shaun said, resignation already settling through him.</p><p>“Well Private,” Brock began. “The germans are a bit more threatening than a few pieces of paper on the floor and a used fag. You think you can handle it?”</p><p><em> Of course </em> he brought up <em> that </em> incident. </p><p>“Well sir, last time I checked the Germans aren’t half witted enough to leave  such a mess. I think I’ll do perfectly fine.” Sergeant Brock laughed and clapped Shaun on the shoulder before continuing on to the rest of his men. </p><p>Shaun hoped the nasty assassin habit of getting the people around them killed wouldn't target his sorry arse. He didn't have time to get attached to his squad, to care, to mourn. William had sent him here with a clear objective: find his son. The Fyre girl in London had done her job, getting the recruitment files and troop placements. Hell, she even got a letter or two. (As her Uncle was fond of repeating for a straight week after, annoying prick.)</p><p>She did her job, he would do his, things would be fine and he’d go home as Bill’s star pupil. </p><p>Shaun trudged along and carefully placed his pack in a slightly less muddier crevice then the rest. He clutched his head as the trench shook again. When he took them back he saw nothing but brown and black. He sighed and ruffled blindly for a handkerchief. It wasn't easy having glasses in a war.Just as it certainly wasn't going to be easy looking for one Desmond Miles. Or as he was known to the British army, Pablo Rivera. </p><p>A screeching whistle that came ever closer kicked Shaun’s nerves into action. He threw himself to the ground, glasses be damned. An explosion shook the feeble earth near the trench. Mud slouched into the trench and splattered across the uniforms of Shaun and his platoon. There was silence before one of the rat-men burst out laughing. </p><p>“Well it looks like old Fritz himself says hello!” Shaun leapt up with shock and placed his glasses back on.”Let’s hope you aren’t the one to say goodbye.”</p><p> There in a dirt alcove was a grinning blond soldier with flecks of dried blood on his face. Bloodshot eyes, blue as weak ice and just as fragile stared at him. The speaker spoke clear english but is was clear from his irritating accent that this was no Englishman. An American already? Most were still training on their home shores, this one must have joined before the rest of the yanks did. </p><p>Before Shaun could step forward, an officer careened into him and kept running. “Over the top boys! Over the top! Up, up, up!” The veterans grumbled and glared at the patches sewn upon the officer’s uniform. With no small amount of reluctance they packed up their cards and positioned themselves in front of the German facing wall. The American wouldn’t stop giggling. Not when he prepared his weapon and not when the officer climbed to the front with his pistol cocked. Shaun managed to grab a spot behind him because this could bloody well be his mission objective standing before him. Said objective turned around, his nerves settling from the brief hysteria. For a second he took on a solemn look before smiling sardonically, and patting Shaun’s helmet twice.</p><p>“Don’t piss your pants.” </p><p>Shaun made a face and opened his mouth to respond just before the officer’s whistle went off. He got a mouthful of mud instead from the American’s exit. Shutting his mouth, Shaun clambered over the top and immediately rolled himself on to the ground. Machine gun fire spurted above him, far too close for comfort. A man from his squad flailed backwards just as he was climbing above the trench, toppling his comrades. A heavy <em>thump </em>next to him threw more mud on to Shaun’s already filthy uniform. He turned to see Sergeant Brock staring straight ahead into the barbed wire bushes. </p><p>“Machine gun nest 11 ‘o clock.” Brock muttered. “If we could just take him out then we wouldn't have to go through that barbed shit.”  </p><p>Shaun squinted into the wire and only after a minute of searching found the machine gunner and his nest.  In front of him were dozens of allied corpses trapped in the last pose of death. There were some men that were still alive but only barely. Shaun forced down a retch when he saw a man with his chest ripped open and still breathing. The endless flashes of allied and german weapons gleaming on the pink and red intestines. There was another man with a red cross on his chest who looked to be sitting peacefully if viewed from the front. Shaun tilted his head a bit and saw the back of the man soaked with blood and tangled into the barbed wire wall.</p><p> Shaun shuffled forward, weapon in hands. Brock’s voice filtered through his head but it was drivel compared to the screams and moans of men collapsing onto the ground. Shaun and his sergeant shuffled closer to the gunner, who was now busy scrambling for ammo. Shaun grinned despite the sights and stench. He’s heard about the predicaments of the grand german army. They were running of men, supplies and public support. The “turnip” winter left barely any food existing for civilians, let alone soldiers. This poor bastard didn’t even have one man available to help him load ammo or cover him. </p><p>Shaun crept forward, ever confidant. The new spring mud was freezing underneath his uniform and made it difficult to maneuver the rifle to aim at the gunner. Shaun’s felt his stomach flip when he saw the glint of bullets in the gunner’s hand. The sergeant besides him cursed. “Shoot them, <em> shoot </em>them goddammit!” </p><p>Shaun shot at the german with as much ferocity as he could muster. British basic training wasn’t much compared to the assassin equivalent but they did a good job at teaching you how to mindless shoot.</p><p>The gunner simply ducked beneath the metal plates attached to the sides of the machine gun. Making himself even harder to see among the brambles of metal. Shaun shook as he reloaded his rifle. This was it. Barely an hour into his mission and he would join the wrangled corpses on the ground in front of him. Someone yanked his body back into the mud and shoved him behind a corpse with no arms. Sergeant Brock dropped next to Shaun and pushed his head down. <em> Bullets can go through corpses </em>the logical part of his supplied, but Shaun allowed the corpse to be a security blanket and closed his eyes. </p><p>Later, Shaun will wonder how he was able to hear it so clearly in the chaos of the battlefield. A single shot rang out before he heard a thud on metal. Shaun opened his eyes quickly and looked slightly over the corpse. The machine gunner was slumped over the machine gun, blood sprayed on his uniform and metal. His brain stopped functioning for a second. Shaun looked around dumbly before Sergeant Brock pushed his head down again.</p><p>“Sir, there was nobody close enough to make that shot.” Shaun closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “Everyone is dead or in another place.” </p><p>Brock was silent for a moment. “A sniper then.” His eyes went wide and Shaun never thought he’d see such a look of awe on his face.  “Maybe <em> the </em> sniper of the 25th.” </p><p>“You mean the miracle worker the higher ups keep blathering on about? ‘Superiority of the british army’ and all that?” Newspapers grabbed whatever miracles and false heroes they could. Morale wasn’t high enough to be choosy. The story of a sniper who was the one man terror of the German army made it to the papers again and again. Shaun hadn’t cared enough to read British propaganda, but perhaps he should have.</p><p>“I heard he was a yank from a friend of mine in his company.”  </p><p>Shuan froze. “An American, he said?” </p><p>“Well yeah.” Brock huffed. “Hard to miss, ain’t suppose to be here for ages.” </p><p>“He blond?” </p><p>“I dunno,” Brock scratched his chin. “Gossip about him’s more about his skills then his looks. Apart of the 25th if you wanna find him."</p><p>“The 25th?” Shaun groveled further into the dirt as a flare burst the darkness and his eardrums. “Where are they stationed?” </p><p>Brock chuckled, seemingly unaffected by the flare or gunfire ringing in the background. “You're in luck, lad. The group we went over the top with were some ‘o them.”</p><p>Shaun’s head whirled to the point of resting it on the bloody mud. The stench of iron and rotten flesh, flashes of the dying in his mind, mixed with the new, delirious hope of finding his target was almost too much to bear. He closed his eyes. </p><p>A rattling explosion shook the ground near them and startled the historian out of his thinking. Brock patted Shaun’s shoulder. “Best get a move on back to our trench. The old boys will take care of the rest.”  Shaun nodded, and began to crawl ever so slowly back to British trenches.</p><p>He passed a poppy on the way, wavering alone in the smog.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this a few years ago when obsessed with both WW1 and Assassins Creed. I am not an expert in either. British military terms and slang also allude me. </p><p>Title is from the poem "The Redeemer" by war poet Siegfried Sassoon.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>